


buried in broken dreams

by ironccap



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Martín Berrote is dead, Not A Fix-It, Palermo is not, This Is Sad, post-Andrés' death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:42:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24591745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironccap/pseuds/ironccap
Summary: Martín Berrote and Palermo are two different people. One of them is still alive, the other died when his soulmate did. The contrast is clear to see.Comparing Martín to Palermo is like spotting the difference between warmth and cold. Between happiness and sadness and comfort and hurt.Between the sun and the moon.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 21
Kudos: 63





	buried in broken dreams

**Author's Note:**

> i am sorry in advance for this.  
> i wrote this in between studying for my exams, so it's rather short.
> 
> thanks to [maleclipse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maleclipse/pseuds/maleclipse) for beta'ing, I love you so much.
> 
> You can always follow me on my [twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/hannib4l).
> 
> Thank you for reading!

Martín is dead. He doesn't exist anymore. That much is for sure. 

But, how come he is still seen, then? How come his body still walks around the empty corridors of the monastery at night? When the light is gone and the silence is deafening him.

That's because the man that's seen, isn't quite Martín anymore. If anything, it's his ghost. The shell of a broken man, left alone in this world with no one to come back to. 

Martín died the same night his soulmate did. If half your heart gets torn away, you don't simply stand up to stitch it back together. You let it bleed out, eyes fixated on the blood but not being able to move, drowning your eyes in it. At least, that's what Martín did. 

Maybe he was a coward.

Martín got replaced by the cold, iced, freezing version of himself. 

_Palermo_.

And Palermo, he doesn't care. About anything, or anyone for that matter. The only person worth caring for, is meters underground in a casket, thoroughly riddled with bullets. 

Comparing Martín to Palermo is like spotting the difference between warmth and cold. Between happiness and sadness and comfort and hurt.

Between the sun and the moon. 

But the sun died so early. Too young, _too soon_.

It's a tragedy, that's what it is.

Martín's smile was joyful, beautiful, radiant. His plan, their plan, to break into the Bank of Spain, had always been like his child. He could talk about it for hours. Preferably to Andrés. But, to be fair, he loved talking about anything, as long as he could share it with Andrés. 

Andrés would always listen to Martín, with that small but proud smile curving his lips, and those mesmerizing eyes staring right into Martín's soul, laying it bare for anyone to see. 

Palermo never genuinely smiles. Anger hangs in front of him like a metallic shield, covering up the dark and painful sadness that has accompanied him for years. 

His laugh is maniacal. Scaring. Disturbing, even. It isn't an actual laugh. It's more like the scream of a wounded animal, begging to be helped but not letting anyone in to do so.

Martín adored art. He didn't at first, not really. But then Andrés came into his life. He was a work of art in itself already, Martín's muse whom he pictured whenever he was alone and his heart ached. 

On a particular sunny afternoon in the summer, Martín and Andrés went to Paris. A street artist drew a portrait of Andrés. Martín knew he would like it. They placed the portrait in the living room of the monastery, Martín shared it a glance every morning, his heart full. It stayed there ever since.

The first time Palermo sees it again, he runs to the bathroom to throw up and breaks down in ugly sobs on the cold tiled floor only seconds later. He demands for it to be taken away. He doesn't have the strength to do it himself.

Martín loved Andrés, that much was as clear as day. He loved spending hours with him, discussing their plan while drinking some wine. Sitting on the couch, barely any space between them. Neither of them would mind it, cherishing the proximity of the other. 

The nights when they'd both fallen asleep next to each other in the living room, weren't able to be counted on one hand. They would wake up in a tangled mess of limbs, lazily cuddling until the sun had fully set on the horizon.

Palermo finds himself waking up on the couch on too many occasions, with a headache and covered in stains of various alcoholic drinks. Sometimes he doesn't even reach the couch, and he's laying on the floor. He never has any recollection from the night before. He doesn't try to remember, he knows it can't be good. 

He doesn't get up, usually. What's the point of doing so anyway? There's no one who will come look for him. And it's not like he ever took care of himself. Andrés did. He always did. He was his anchor in a rough sea, even during a stormy night. 

Martín didn't like pain. But he was clumsy, very clumsy. He tripped over his own feet almost more than he didn't. He fell on his knee once, it was bad. Andrés had been worried sick, his voice going an octave higher than normal when he saw Martín covered in blood. He'd patched him up rather quickly, kissing the band-aid softly. 

Martín's heart rate had sped up incredibly at that. His stomach filled with a whole zoo of animals. Andrés cared about him. He knew that. He also knew that Andrés would always be there to catch him when he fell. 

Palermo doesn't like pain either. But he is used to it. Pain is like a loan you can't ever payback. He experienced a lot of pain in the past. Now, he just feels numb all the time. That scares him the most. Feeling nothing at all. It's like a dark void stretching out in front of him, swallowing him whole.

That's why he creates new wounds. To feel something, anything. To feel the pain again. But there's no worrying voice running towards him when he's covered in blood this time. No one to fix him up with a band-aid. No one to catch him. So he keeps on falling and falling. Into an infinite nothingness, where there's only room for his quiet sobs to echo in the dark. 

Martín was a romantic, a lover. He spent years creating a poem for his muse, worshipping him with all the love and devotion he had. He would do anything for Andrés. He longed to kiss him, one day. To know what those lips tasted like, to know what they felt like. To have Andrés by his side, forever. 

Palermo doesn't believe in romance. Or at least, that's what he says. He hides behind some easy words, to mask the hurt he's suffered. He knows how it feels to kiss the beloved he once had. And he wishes he didn't. Because it's torture. It's all he can see and all he can think of whenever he closes his eyes. It's like he's a prisoner in his own mind, begging to be freed.

Martín always dreamt of growing old with Andrés by his side. It was a perfect image in his head, the two of them together. Sharing their love, passion and admiration for each other. 

Martín was perfectly happy there in the monastery. Andrés had the missing piece that would fit in his heart. The one he had been looking for his entire life. And Martín would patiently wait, to receive it.

But, this is a tragedy, so much was said before.

Andrés died a few weeks later, still holding the piece in his possession. It never reached Martín. He was left in the dark, forever.

Martín saw the death of his soulmate on the news that one day. He didn't scream, he didn't cry. He just stood there and let his heart bleed out, until there was nothing left. 

Nothing left of Martín. 

From there, a completely different person took over. A stranger. Embodying an empty, hollowed-out man. 

Palermo, the cold, iced, freezing version of Martín. 

Because Martín is dead. He doesn't exist anymore. 

_That much is for sure._


End file.
